


the journey of grief begins with a cup of coffee

by vitriol



Series: a cup of tea and a bouquet of flowers [1]
Category: Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/strange fake
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Could be seen as shipping, Gen, a lot of talk about death, cemetery coffee shop au, drowning mentions, some graphic description of a corpse, technically, the coffee shop is in a cemetery, why can't i write something normal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-21
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26574109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vitriol/pseuds/vitriol
Summary: “Every person grieves in their own, unique way. But that doesn’t mean that you have to do it all alone.”After the loss of their sister, Jack begins the process of grieving with the help of a rather strange barista that works in the cemetery's café.
Series: a cup of tea and a bouquet of flowers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934326
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	the journey of grief begins with a cup of coffee

**Author's Note:**

> why can't i write a normal au like a normal person

Some say that life is beautiful because it is ephemeral. 

A human life can end at the hands of a knife, a car crash, or old age. It can end before the human can take their first breath and cry out to the world. 

Because it is unpredictable, it is beautiful, or so people say. Because of this “beauty”, countless artists have taken up the brush and canvas to express it in paintings that would end up in either museums or in the living room of a wealthy CEO. 

_Death and Life, The Death of Socrates, Andromache Mourning Hector._

All of them, and countless others, were beautiful. 

But because of that beauty, Jack would never understand the sheer _ugliness_ that surrounded the corpse of his sister. They had been the one to receive the call from the police, that her body had been found near the Thames, washed up on shore after the police had lost all traces of her a week prior.

No one from the family wanted to pick up her remains. No one wanted to sully themselves further by acknowledging the girl that had dragged their family named through the mud the moment that her crimes were discovered.

5 women in Whitechapel. All of them found with their bellies open, their guts strewn around their legs like a grotesque bouquet.

As Jack observes the remains that they had been asked to identify, all they can think about is how _ugly_ this bloated, waterlogged corpse is. 

And yet they’re still able to recognize the most telling features-- the scar on her eye from when they had played too roughly as children, the curve of her nose, and the hints of platinum blonde, almost silver hair that were not marked by the mud of the river.

There are no brushstrokes. No artistic beauty that could be hung up on the wall. Only the decomposing corpse of someone that used to be family. 

“That’s her.” They confirm, with a voice that is distant but very much their own. 

The coroner nods, covering her face with the blanket. _It doesn’t matter anymore,_ they want to say. “We still need to perform an autopsy. Do you have any arrangements for a funeral home?” 

The man’s dispassionate questions drone on and on in Jack’s ears, who continues staring at the white sheet that now covers the face of their dead sister. They can feel their own mouth moving, the words reverberating in their throat but never really reaching their ears. Funeral homes? Jack had never even considered the idea of losing their sister before she had even been 20 years old, but now they had to think about _funeral homes_ and, consequently, _funerals._

Something bubbles from their chest. They realize a little too late that it’s a laugh, and that the coroner is looking at them strangely. 

“I’ll make the arrangements,” Jack says, and leaves the room with a scene that has now been burned into the back of their eyelids. 

\---

Making arrangements last minute is far more difficult than Jack could have ever imagined. Even with the delay from the autopsy, getting all the documentation that is necessary is similar to rushing to complete a project the day that it is due. 

Luckily, the funeral director that they speak to seems to have it better put together than they have. His voice is dispassionate but not cold, the even tone soothing their nerves. Whether it’s by the grace of some deity above or sheer luck (or the fact that the funeral homes are never a place that is booming with customers), the man on the phone informs them that they can take care of her. 

“Will it be a burial?” The man on the voice asks, “Or cremation?” 

“Cremation. And skip the viewing,” they mumble, not even pausing for a second to consider their option. “No one will visit her anyways.” 

The man on the phone does not laugh. He does not criticize either. Though Jack cannot see him, they imagine him nodding in understanding, without any judgement. They had told him her name, so of _course_ this man would know who and _what_ she is and, while he would expect judgement from anyone else...this man...seemed different. 

“I understand,” the man on the phone says.

And that is enough for Jack.

—

It’s a day later when Jack walks into the funeral home, feeling more awkward than sad. Of course, the pain of loss is still there, but, being the only mourner for someone only makes them feel like they stick out like a sore thumb. 

How they hate sticking out in a crowd. They much preferred the times when they could slip away unseen and unrecognized. If no one remembered their face, then that would be all that Jack would ask. 

They wonder if they should have at least tried dressing formally. The families they see are dressed in slacks and suits, or in black dresses, withstanding the summer haze to mourn over a casket that contained a person that would never wake up again. Instead, they’re dressed in black jeans and an old, baggy t-shirt that threatened to swallow them whole, along with some nearly torn tennis shoes to _really_ complete the picture.

Jack wishes that they could cry over their sister. Ask her why she had to go so soon and apologize for not seeing the signs. For not helping. 

Maybe she wouldn’t have been caught, if they had helped. 

Not that it mattered now. 

The man had told him that the process could take up to three hours to complete. It was their first conversation off the phone, and the image of him had almost been exactly what they imagined. Well, aside from the long hair, which had been tied back into a neat ponytail. Waver Velvet, was the name that he had given them.

“You can wait in the café in the meantime.” He had told them. And Jack, who was desperate for any sort of guidance, had only nodded in agreement, letting their feet work on their own. 

(A bad idea, considering how lost they got, but a girl in a hooded sweater kindly showed them the way back.) 

The café was...nothing special. But that hardly mattered to Jack, who rarely frequented cafés in the first place, much less ones that were inside cemeteries. The place was small, but well-kept, with only a few tables to sit down in.

On one of the sides of the café, they could see a refrigerator dedicated to an assortment of flowers. Roses, calla lilies, sunflowers, poppies, and a number of other flowers that they couldn’t recognize were in display.

_Should I buy one?,_ they idly thought to themselves, though they quickly banished the thought when they realized that it was probably for the best if they went back home with as little to remind them of their sister as possible. Maybe they should just leave right now, actually, and let that man deal with it. _He has my info, though, so—_

“Do you want anything to drink?” A voice pulls Jack out of their thoughts. It’s far too chipper for the location, to the point that they can’t help but feel like it’s misplaced. Because of that, they turn around, grey eyes locking on the only other person in the area: a young man with a mop of blonde hair and blue eyes as bright as the sky outside. 

From the apron they wore and the fact that they stood behind the counter, Jack quickly concludes that they’re the cashier-slash-barista. 

They open their mouth to answer, but no words come out. 

The barista tilts his head, eyes still fixed on the new customer. “Are you alright?”A pause. They laugh sheepishly. “Well, if you’re here, I guess you’re not alright. Or maybe you _are_ okay and suddenly lost your voice? Tea can help with both things, you know!”

The string of words that come out of the stranger’s mouth are increasingly ridiculous, and Jack can only stare at them in amazement at the confidence laced in them. 

“Coffee,” they croak out, their voice barely recognizable. “No sugar.” 

The way that the barista beams at them feels as if the rays of the sun are shining right on their eyes. 

—

The coffee only takes a couple minutes to be made, but in that span of time, the barista seems to have taken it upon himself to play 20 questions with them. And while Jack is not in the mood to answer them, they decide that anything is better than thinking about the mental image of their sister’s corpse encased in flames. 

By the time they come to the table with their cup of coffee, the barista already knows their name, (“Jack”) their age, (“24”) and their profession (“5th year of Medical School” “Amazing!”). 

And while they expect the questions to end in order for them to enjoy their coffee in relative peace, it seems that this barista has different ideas in mind.

He sits down on the chair across their own, still beaming at them.

Jack couldn’t help but wonder: _Where the hell did they pick this one up?_

“So?” The blonde asks, and Jack notices their accent for the first time. Is it Italian? French? The curiosity gnaws at their toes, but they don’t have the energy to ask. “Are you here to visit a grave? Or did someone die?”

What a blunt question. Once again, Jack is stunned into answering: “My sister died. They’re cremating her.”

“Oh! I’m so sorry for your loss.” The barista says, and Jack can’t help but feel like it’s less of him paying respects and more of a knee jerk response. But, somehow, it doesn’t feel ingenuine. 

They nod, not saying anything.

“But where’s the rest of the family? Or did you just not want to watch the process?”

There’s a long silence. And, from the way the barista looks away, perhaps he, too, realized that it was the wrong question to ask. 

But Jack answers anyway. “I’m the only one here.”

“Why?”

“No one else wanted to come.”

“Why?”

“Because she’s not someone that should be mourned.”

Another long silence. It doesn’t feel awkward, though. The barista’s too-bright smile has disappeared for the first time, replaced with a thoughtful expression as they stare at the untouched coffee that continues to cool down. 

“That doesn’t sound right,” the barista finally says, resting his chin on his hand. “ _Everyone_ deserves to be mourned. No matter how bad they were.”

The answer throws Jack farther off than any of his smiles or nonsensical questions. They look away, gripping the cup until their knuckles were white. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew what she was.” 

His gaze is still on them, Jack realizes. It makes them feel uneasy. “Then what was your sister?” 

“A serial killer.” 

“...”

There it is. The judgement. The disgust. Jack expects him to walk away at any moment now, repulsed by the fact that they were mourning a monster.

But what he says shocks them more than ever. 

“So? Someone should mourn them, too. They die just like any other person, after all.” 

The smile that they give Jack is no different than any of the other ones, but this time, it leaves them feeling both ill and comforted at the same time. _What a strange kid,_ they can’t help but think.

“What’s your name?” they finally ask. 

“Flat.”

“What?”

“Flat!”

Impossible. “That can’t be your name.” Jack says, their expression _clearly_ unimpressed. If this was a joke, they were not in the mood for them.

But “Flat” laughs, shaking his head. “It’s a nickname. But everyone calls me that here, so isn’t it fine?”

It’s so ridiculous, that Jack can’t even begin to consider it a lie. “You have a strange taste in nicknames.”

“Thank you!” 

_It’s not a compliment,_ they want to say, but decide against it, in the end. It would most likely be a waste of their breath, considering this strange, strange barista’s attitude. 

They look at their watch. Only thirty minutes have passed since they arrived, but it feels like an eternity. 

…

They sigh, looking down at their reflection on the coffee as if it’s going to give them all the answers to their questions. When it doesn’t happen, they feel disappointed in themselves. 

There’s no harm in staying, they tell themselves. Taking a deep breath, Jack decides to shoot Flat a question of their own. “So how did you end up here?” 

Flat tilts their head, confused. “What do you mean? I work here.”

“Exactly.” They pause again to take a sip of their coffee. “A cemetery café isn’t the place I’d imagine someone like you working at. And it’s not like there’s a shortage of them in London either, so...why here?” 

There’s a moment of tension on Flat’s end, eyebrows knit in an expression that Jack recognizes all too well from their own social experiences. It’s the same one that they have whenever they have to think their words carefully for fear of judgement from the others. 

But after a couple seconds, they give Jack a small smile, and an answer that is as unconvincing as their nickname. “Well, the Professor--Mister Velvet--offered me a job about a year ago. And I realized that, hey, it must be interesting to work in a cemetery. So I agreed!” 

So Waver was the one that hired him? Jack can’t help but wonder how a man like _that_ would give the green light to hire someone...someone like _this_. But, when they think about it, the coffee wasn‘t bad and the place was clean. Perhaps that’s what matters the most, even in a place that is supposed to be surrounded by death. Though Jack can’t see Flat as someone who would be very good at comforting anyone that would come in crying…

But something about that story doesn’t add up. Jack can’t pinpoint neither _why_ or _how_ , but they know that there is more to this than meets the eye. But they also do not believe that Flat is lying either…

They sigh. Jack knows that they shouldn’t be so interested in someone that they will probably never see again. And yet they are strangely pulled to this strange barista, like a bizarre magnetism that they cannot pull away from. 

_Well, as long as it makes the time pass faster_ , Jack concludes, resigning themselves to the conversation with a sigh. “So you work full time here? I’m guessing your parents must want you to go to University—“

His expression. 

The moment that Jack said that word, it was as if all the color had escaped from Flat’s face. White as a sheet, he stared blankly at them for what was only a second, but felt like an eternity. It’s a look that cannot be described with any word other than _haunted_.

And, as quickly it occurred, it ended. “Ah… not really.” Flat mumbled, standing up from his seat with an uneasy smile. “We don’t really talk.” 

He takes Jack’s cup and plate, and they do not have the heart to tell them that there is still coffee and that they wanted to finish it. Instead, their gray eyes follow Flat as he goes back to the counter, quietly washing the dishes and setting them aside. The silence is heavy, crushing even, and they don’t know what to say or do to make it stop. 

“...I-I guess we have that in common.” Jack stammers, despite their own nerves. They’re not sure _why_ they felt like they had to say it, but the silence would have driven them to insanity if it had stayed for a second longer. “The reason I’m alone...is because no one in my family wanted to come.” They laugh, bitter. “Having a serial killer in the family is a good fuel for a couple feuds.” 

Flat looks up from the back counter, his gaze almost owlish as he listens to Jack. They notice that their face is still pale, but not as much as it was just a few minutes ago. 

He does not say anything though, so Jack continues, if only to lessen the silence that surrounded them. 

“They saw my sister as a freak and an embarrassment due to her actions... they expected me to do the same. And maybe I should have. No one should have any sympathy for killers, you know? But…” they pause, feeling a knot in their throat as they remember their sister before she had disappeared. Before she was caught. Before they saw her on a cold, metal gurney. “I couldn’t bring myself to. I can’t forgive her for what she did, but I can’t hate her either. In the end, she’s still my sister. Or, I guess, she _was_. Now she’s just going to be a pile of ashes in a vase.”

They could feel the tears welling up in their eyes, and they immediately reach to brush them away. They can’t help but feel a sense of shame, crying in front of someone that they barely know--Flat’s silence only makes them feel worse. Looking away from the counter and towards the wall, they can hear movement. 

Something being poured.

Steps coming closer.

And something being set on the table. It smells sweet, and faintly of apple. 

When Jack turns towards it, it’s a cup with a liquid that is a warm, amber color. They look up at Flat, and though the tears still obstruct their vision, they can see a small, lonely smile on their face. 

“Chamomile.” Flat says, with none of the overly bright enthusiasm from before. It’s soft, it’s gentle, like the last rays of sunlight before nightfall. “It’s supposed to help with the nerves.” 

Jack feels like his words come from experience. 

They bring the cup to their lips, and take a sip. It’s sweet, but not overly so, and the warmth of the tea grounds them back to reality. Though they’re not sure if a placebo or not, they do feel a bit calmer already. 

“I can stay with you, if you want.” Flat says, that lonely smile not disappearing from his face. 

Jack nods, but they’re not sure why.

It doesn’t matter. 

\---

It is not much longer after that when Waver calls Jack on the phone again to tell them that they can pick up the ashes. After hanging up, they looked at Flat, not sure on whether or not to ask him to come with. 

But as soon as they mentioned that they were going to pick up the ashes, Flat had immediately jumped to begin closing the store. 

And that’s how they both found themselves in front of Waver Velvet, who held a simple urn in his arms. 

“You.” His gaze is immediately directed towards Flat, an eyebrow raised in a displeased expression. “What are you doing here? You better not be disrupting the guests again.” 

“Not at all, Professor!” Flat called back, a sheepish smile on his face as he walked alongside Jack. “Jack asked me to come. Right, Jack?” 

They nod. 

Waver stares. First at Flat, and then at Jack. 

For a moment, Jack feels like the man is peering into their very soul with those green, almost gray eyes. 

And then, the man sighs in defeat, shaking his head. “Very well. But don’t ask to go on another break after this.” 

“Yes sir!” 

_What an unceremonious way to receive the ashes of a family member,_ Jack finds themselves thinking. But it is not an unpleasant experience. The lack of formality makes them feel more relaxed and, at a time like this, such a thing could not be better. 

But certainly enough, Waver approaches Jack, handing him the urn with a nod. “If you wish to spread the ashes, there is a section of the land that is for that. Flat can guide you to it, if you wish.” 

Jack looks over their shoulder, and they can’t help but smile when Flat makes an exaggerated salute. When they look back at Waver, they nod. “Alright. I’ll do that.” A pause. “Thank you. For everything.” 

Waver shakes his head. “It is simply my job. Now go, before that idiot’s break ends.” 

Jack nods again, and goes to Flat’s side, urn held tightly against their chest. 

Once they’re both out of earshot...Waver sighs, running a hand through their long hair. “To think that it’s been over two years since I’ve seen him make a connection with anyone...I wonder if he is finally beginning to heal?” 

\---

The trip to the designated section is not long, only a couple minutes. Jack can’t help but take a look at the graves that they pass. Some graves are well kept with fresh flowers in vases and clean, ornate headstones, while others looked like they had been forgotten by time itself, with not a single flower sight. Each one of them had a name, a year of birth, and a year of death. Some of them had messages engraved on them

All of them stories that did not wish to be told. 

The place to spread the ashes is about half a block of a tree dense area, not all that rare for the outside of London. It is quiet, far away from the sounds of cars during the rush hour. 

Flat is a few metres behind them, hands in his pockets and as watchful as ever. 

Jack looks at him, eyebrows knit together in a troubled expression. When they open their mouth to voice their thoughts, only one question comes out. “Why...why...would you go this far?” 

Flat tilts his head, clearly not understanding. “What do you mean? I told you I would.” 

“No one does this for someone that they only met today.” Jack insists. “So why would you?” 

Silence. 

Flat’s confusion turns into surprise, as if such a thought had never crossed his mind before. In fact, Jack is almost _certain_ that it _never did._

But then, Flat smiles. It is the same smile that they had seen through their tears, lonely and distorted in a way that they felt like they could _almost_ understand, but not quite. “Every person grieves in their own, unique way. But that doesn’t mean that you have to do it all alone.”

They are not words that sound like Flat’s own. It’s almost as if he were reciting them from memory, like a character in a play. 

But, regardless of that, they sound honest. Jack accepts them with a shuddering breath and a shaky, unsure smile. Perhaps it was a strange, strange person that had attached himself to them, but the fact was that they were not alone. In a way, it was a relief. 

Jack opened the urn. Inside, they could see what remained of their sister. Nothing more than a pile of dark gray ashes. 

But perhaps, by letting her go, Jack could finally be free. Of her. Of their family. 

Closing their eyes, they turned the urn upside down, and all its contents spilled to the ground. The London wind was not strong, but it was enough to make the pile begin to sift through the grass like it was its final dance.

_Goodbye, sister._

When they turn back, Flat is still observing them, leaning against the trunk of a tree. “Do you want to go back to the café?” He asks, blue eyes warm like the sea in the afternoon.

Without a second thought, Jack nods.

**Author's Note:**

> yes, jack's sister is assassin of black. anyways, follow me at @jibetatravel on the blue bird site if you want to see me crying over flat 35/7, and i hope you liked it!


End file.
